Windows

Climbing out, seeing in.

The house we built on farmland when I was an early teen created offered me a unique and introspective - and nature-oriented - upbringing. We rode four-wheelers on trails, with one of us driving and the other holding the large round deer spotlight, sending a bouncing beam of light across the fields as we sped across the uneven ground. I rode horses, as fast as we could go, and lay across a sun-warmed rock the size of a bed, reading books. We had giant bonfires in the backyard, and camped there too, surrounded by fireflies as far as we could see.

But my favorite, my very favorite, was something that was all my own. Many nights I’d climb out my window and move carefully across the sloped roof to where two planes met to form a valley, and I’d lay there in my little roof haven and watch the stars in the sky. More stars than I’ve ever seen since. And for as long as I needed, it was just me and those stars, the blackest black sky, and the cool Pennsylvania night air.

Tired or chilly, I’d eventually climb back in my window and into bed, feeling centered and calm and full.